42B7
by Jiara Anatalis
Summary: Ever wonder how a crate of gizka ended up on Tatooine...and how you were mistaken for the ship meant to pick it up? Here's one possible theory. Oneshot from a KFM contest.


This was an entry to a recent contest at KFM that involved gizka. Ever wonder how a crate of gizka ended up on Tatooine? This might be one answer...

* * *

Motta was going to kill him. For real this time. This wasn't his fault, but try telling that to a Hutt. He sighed as he tugged at his collar and shifted uncomfortably in the ill-fitting and unfamiliar suit that made the blazing desert sun seem even hotter. He looked around the empty docking bay. His eyes met briefly with Mic'Tunan'Jus Orgu, who quickly turned after a scowl from both heads. He shrugged and figured it was worth a shot.

"Hey, Mic," he called as he wandered over.

"Go away Kurax! I don't want to be seen with you. Bad for business."

Kurax surveyed the silent dock, seeing only Czerka staff and no 'business' for either of them. "Just wanted to ask if there are any freighters scheduled for today."

"Why would I know? And why would there be? No one comes to Anchorhead any more. Only Czerka ships come and go."

"I was just thinking, you being a merchant, you would know if any potential customers were coming in."

"How can I be a merchant if there is no one to sell to?" His tiny arms flung in every direction. "Motta did this. Everyone knows Anchorhead has a problem, they stay away. What is he doing about it?" The large body below Mic stamped his foot in time with the outburst, a cloud of dust swirling up into the light breeze.

"He is working on it," the Aqualish said softly, his booted toe digging into the sand. "Could be over soon."

"Ah," Mic said, his beady eyes narrowing even more. "So that is the reason for your stupid clothes, dressed as a customs worker. You fool nobody here. Better hope spacers show up who don't know better."

"Yeah, thanks," he sighed as he crossed the courtyard. That _was_ his only hope, and now after two days of waiting, it was getting dim at best. What Mic said was true—word had gotten out, Anchorhead was infested…with gizka.

The box arrived from Nar Shaddaa, Vogga's hallmark on it. A gift for his brother Motta's birthday. How was he supposed to know it was a prank? He accepted the delivery, popped the lid…and out they hopped. Everywhere. In no time gizka had overrun Motta's place and escaped into the settlement. People stopped attending swoop races and Motta's earnings were suffering. Local merchants were feeling the squeeze too, and looked for someone to blame; when they decided it was Motta's fault, the Hutt looked at Jor Ul Kurax.

It wasn't enough to bring bodies to the Hutt—he wanted more evidence, proof the creatures were completely gone, off the planet, preferably back to Vogga's, but he would settle for them gone and never to return. So there Kurax stood, after three weeks of hunting gizka and cleaning out Anchorhead, with a large crate of them to pawn on the next unsuspecting visitor. If there ever was one.

"You just stay over there!" Mic yelled. "Don't ruin my business!"

Kurax returned a tired and resigned wave, "Yes, yes, I am not scaring away your _invisible_ customers," he groaned under his breath as he rolled his eyes…and then he heard the muffled engine roar. He looked up and squinted in the sun: a small freighter was actually coming in to dock. Lady Luck had landed, with Ebon Hawk painted on its side.

He hung back, waiting, watching as the Czerka representative exacted his docking fee, silently practicing his act. The three humans looked ordinary enough, two females and a male. He hoped one of them understood his language—never had gotten Basic to roll off his tongue. Too late now. He stiffened his posture and took a deep breath.

"Ah, hello there, captain," he began as the trio approached the main gate, "Let's see…yes, everything seems in order. Your shipment is ready to be delivered."

"Excuse me, shipment?" one of the women answered.

"That's impossible, we didn't order anything," the man added quickly. Kurax noted the human's hand resting tensely on his blaster holster.

"Err, yes, docking bay 32, check…crate 42-B7, check; Everything is in order." He tried to sound as calm and official as possible.

"There is no order here, you got the wrong ship," the man insisted. "Come on, let's go find this map thing and get out of here," the man said and turned to go. "I've only been here two minutes and I got sand _everywhere_."

"This is the Ebon Hawk, right? Crate 42-B7, my last delivery. You guys are late," he ad-libbed. The woman took the man by the arm and turned away a couple of steps. She was whispering, but he caught a few words, like "Davik's ship" and "need to just play along to keep a low profile." At that Kurax nearly snorted. If they wanted to keep a low profile, the guy better change out of that eye-searing orange jacket and the other woman should stop wearing that skin-tight leather get-up.

"Sorry about the confusion," the woman smiled smoothly when she turned back to him. "We are just new, we might have our pick-ups a little mixed up." She offered another weak grin. "May I see the delivery instructions?"

"Yeah, well, it says right here on the manifest that you ordered this crate, so now all I need is your thumbprint for the…wait a sec, where did that datapad go? I swear, nothing is organized around here." He pantomimed patting at his uniform looking for the nonexistent item.

"I am sure if Davik ordered this, there was nothing official anyway," the other woman added. "What might be in this crate?"

"Ah…" Kurax began.

"Bastila? Is that you?" A Twi'lek called out to them and began to make her way across the docking bay. "I don't believe it, it _is_ you!"

With the spacers now distracted, Kurax backed away and signaled to a droid waiting in the far corner. The unit jerked to life and followed towards the ship, a large crate on a hover cart in tow.

"Just put it over there," the blue Twi'lek motioned towards the far wall of the hold. The droid slid past and began to settle the crate in the designated spot. Kurax blinked a few times trying to get his eyes adjusted from the bright Tatooine sun to the dim light in the ship's cargo hold. When things came into focus, he saw possibly the last thing he imagined. A Mandalorian. A big one at that.

"Hold on a sec…what the hell is that?" he grumbled.

"I just saw our fearless leader talking to him. She told him to load it up." The Twi'lek shrugged. "I signed for it, it is all legal and stuff."

"I don't care, I want to know what it is before I let it on this ship." With that he started for the box. Kurax took a step back and slowly made for the door. "Ut, uh, buddy."

There was a large hand grasping at the back of his collar—The Mandalorian had him tight in his grip, and Kurax was dragged back to the center of the hold.

"I'm just dropping off an order, no problems here!"

"We'll just see about that," the big guy growled as he wrenched open the crate with one hand. "What the…!"

The inevitable cascade of gizka poured from the box, hopping frantically in every direction. The Twi'lek screamed.

"What are those things! Eww, they are gross!"

Suddenly a Cathar appeared from the far door, and incredibly, a Wookiee ran into the room from the other portal. Kurax looked at the odd assortment: a Twi'lek, Mandalorian, Cathar, and a Wookiee…what the hell sort of crew was this? Suddenly the gizka did not seem so out of place.

"Gizka," the Cathar purred, a grin pulling her lips taunt over fangs. "I haven't had…I mean seen one of these in a while." She reached out and snatched one of them, a strange look of delighted anticipation dancing in her eyes, and ran off.

The Wookiee barked and howled. "Yeah, she said gizka, what about them?" the Twi'lek answered. Another growl and the Wookiee was gone too. "Really?! I didn't think anything in the galaxy could eat more than you, Big Z! You better secure our supplies then."

Kurax realized in the chaos and commotion, he had been let go. He made short work of the distance to the door.

"Oh, Canderous, I think that one likes you," he heard behind him as he ran down the loading ramp.

"Of course, what's not to like?" was the answer. "I hope they taste better than they look."

"Or smell…wait, did you say taste…ewww!"

Kurax sprinted across the sand towards the main gate, the signed datapad firmly in his grip, his passport to freedom from Motta's bounty. He was relieved to be rid of the damn vermin at last, but even so, somehow he felt sorry for the gizka. Really sorry.


End file.
